stressed, depressed, and very well-dressed
by hel lokidottir
Summary: "Well, it's school. What more reasons do you want me to give?" sortahighschool!au (feat. sansfrisk, chara!centric, love-triangle!ships, and more!ships); (trigger warnings: implications of self-harm, heavy)


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 **a/n: what did i do. i can't even?¿? much words, such fail. this didn't go as planned. oh my god what even is this?**

 **(more author's notes down)**

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Sometimes, Frisk wonders about life, and it would tend to stray to deep philosophical conversations they would have with the voices in their head. A little strange, maybe, but adolescents their age have the impeccable talent to make such a big fuss out of something so small and create friends out of chattering imagination, so it doesn't really bother them that much when the imaginary audience had started piping up at random hours of the day.

(Chara says that there is something very wrong with them, but Frisk doesn't really give a care about it; after all, they are not the certain soul-twin who thinks eating out of broken pans is socially acceptable. "It's helping the economy," Chara had said. "Aren't you proud? At least, _I'm_ doing something the fucking government can't do.")

Other times, though, they would think about life, before coming to the conclusion that they'd rather just be like the rest of their peers—arrogant, airy, lacking substance—than dissecting the topic head on, like they usually do. They won't try to be like them, though, because this full Frisk is usually either too busy brimming their head with thoughts that they'd rather not tell Dad or playing with pens that Mom would not hesitate to stick the tips with child-proofing rubbers if she ever finds out or taking several hours of nap in rumpled school clothes, roused only by Asriel's call of "dinner's ready!"

("You're sick," Chara would then tell them in that elderly-twin voice, whenever they would begrudgingly join their family over supper. Frisk would just nod at her statement when they pass by her, and would finally respond, "I know." They don't.)

Frisk hates thinking about life—at both times, for both reasons.

It's a fucking great distraction from the humdrum surrounding them, though. The time is— _was_ , they correct themselves, because it's been a long while since they glanced back down at their watch—fifteen to eleven, Social Science being the class for the hour. It isn't the most favoured course, but it _is_ sine qua non—they _are_ an ambassador—so there really is no escaping having to memorise several hundred theories by another several hundred people from several hundred eras.

At least, they didn't have to study about the individual laws, politics and constitutions of humankind and monster-race, yet. That would be at another two months, or so says the subject outline the teacher had given out the first day. Currently, it's just another detail on Emile Durkheim's life and works, Mister Mosby the Social Science teacher scribbling notes on the board, keyword "structural functionalism" encircled in white chalk.

Frisk just eyes the writings in disinterest, hands fiddling with the violet pen that reminds them of their old sweater. They don't jot any of it down on paper. It's nearing lunch, and they could always just borrow their brother's binder from his bag when he's gone to eat with some of his new friends. Asriel wouldn't mind. Frisk thinks he's the perfect brother they could ever ask for.

("He killed you," Chara had commented once, lean figure stretched over the galaxy-themed mattress Frisk owns while they slaved over their research paper. "Like, more times that I could count." "Are you saying you're not a murderer yourself?" "Oh, I'm a murderer alright—genocide is love, genocide is life, after all—but, I'm just saying that out of all the monsters that fought you, he had the highest number of kills." "What's your point, Chara?" " … Nothing, really." The wistful look on her face then had spoken of things that are _very much there_ , but Frisk doesn't ask her. They are not the rightful person that should listen to her explain that faraway gleam in their eyes, after all.)

Mister Mosby tenses, and leans towards the general direction of the door. The bell rings. Mister Mosby ends his discussion with a "have a good break, class! See you tomorrow." The class replies with a chorus of goodbyes of their own, the once-still group exploding in noise and loud chattering.

Frisk leaves the room almost immediately, their bag strewn over their shoulder, while skimming over Asriel's notebook they had taken while passing his desk. Organized, colourful with bits and pieces of stick-it paper fluttering in between pages, letters in that slightly messy handwriting of his. Large hands and fur don't exactly go well in gripping pencils. Still, it's readable, and that's what matters.

They fish out their phone from their bag, the slim gadget cool against their fingertips. It's the latest model that's said to be better than other previous ones, but Frisk doubts that it could surpass the phone Alphys gave them years ago. It may have been bulky and not as 'aesthetically appealing' as opposed to those made by humans, but it has a jetpack. _A frigging_ _ **jetpack.**_

It's safe to say that Alphys deserves her job as lead inventor and secondary scientist in the Dome. (Alphys never tells them where exactly it is located and what they actually do in there, saying that it's top-secret until her higher-ups give the go. "Ah, yes. I'm pretty sure what they're doing is morally correct, and not at all like what those stereotypical scientists do in the movies, _like_ , I dunno. Find a body? Rip its heart out? Preserve the corpse? Disrespect the dead—" Chara stops. "Oh, wait.")

The bulky phone is still working, but several years without a proper maintenance doesn't leave it undamaged. It keeps lagging now, with a dark big blob on the screen and the volume never beyond 2, so they only ever use it for the sake of nostalgia. Frisk could have just asked Alphys to fix it—surely, she would say yes in a heartbeat—but, they never really got around to asking her. They _might have_ , the first few months it started showing signs of wear, but months turned to years, and they still couldn't find the right opportunity to ask the yellow monster. There's always work, school, philosophising about life for them. Always just **that**.

Sigh. At least, the phone Goat Dad got for them has this mean camera that's arguably just _wow_.

Frisk unlocks her phone, (password: 36757, which is read as 'DORKS') and begins to type a short message to Asriel. **[took your notebook, will return it later.** _11:08_ **]**

They slide it back in their bag.

The hallway is just teeming with students, and Frisk feels like they're going to suffocate from the frequent invasion of their personal bubble. Fortunately, their destination is a corner and a couple of doors away, and the thought leaves them almost running down the corridor. The school uniform swishes by their legs, the grey fabric scratching their skin.

("You're such a sensitive-skinned baby, Frisk," Chara teased. "And, you're an old raisin grandma trying to pass up as a teenager," they rebutted.)

A white door with the label "LAB04" opens, and, they would have slammed right into it, if not for the sudden surge of reflexes and the familiar feel of blue holding them in place. Frisk imagines their nerves dancing with the old friend, adrenaline.

"geez, kid. you're starting to make me understand why there's all these hall signs," Sans comments, eye-sockets void of the sapphire heat that usually resides in them. Sweat dots his skull, accompanying the stiffness of his shoulders as he continues standing by the doorway. His one hand is still on the doorknob, nervously twisting and turning.

"Sorry," Frisk mutters, dusting off the invisible magic residue from their arms once Sans manages to rewind them back to his fingertips. They know he's waiting for a pun—he _did_ set up his greeting in a way that's easy for them to make a ridiculous comeback—but, there's only a small preoccupied smile on their face as they weakly say, "I was hoping I'd surprise you."

He reads through their words, and, of course he understands the smallness of their voice. Sans nods, "well, gotta say that you did rattle my bones a bit there," and stepping aside to let them enter the room.

"That makes both of us." The laboratory smells like isopropyl alcohol and Dettol, a sure sign that the room hasn't been used yet, making Frisk tilt their head in confusion. There's usually the after-scent of smoke and burnt chemicals. "Morning class cancelled?"

"yeah." Sans chuckles behind them, followed by the sound of the door shutting close. Frisk turns around to look at him curiously, setting down their bag and notebook on a nearby table. "there was a birthday, i think. dunno. they asked if they could skip class today so they'd have a longer class party."

"And, you said yes."

The corner of his mouth twitches, "naturally. i wouldn't pass up an opportunity to slack off." He shrugs, his lab coat crinkling noisily. Frisk rolls their eyes at him.

"No, it's because you care," they joke, but it sounds quite bleak and dry to be considered funny. Still, Sans raises an eye-ridge in amusement.

"so, _that's_ what this stone-cold feeling in my chest is called. _'concern'_ ," he air-quotes. Although there's a palpable sarcasm oozing from him, there is also the trace of sincerity wrecking his otherwise completely uncaring look. Sans cares a lot, even when he thinks doesn't. He is adorable.

(Chara hadn't looked pleased at all when they told her their two a.m. thought. "Ugh, stop being so mushy-mushy over that comedian, and go to sleep, dammit.")

"Alright, alright. I give," they say in pretend resignation. "You're a heartless monster."

"that's because I am, kid," Sans laughs. He takes off the safety goggles hanging over his neck, and gives it to them, knowing full-well that they have taken a liking to wearing it, despite being too large for them to use properly. They take it eagerly, like a child offered their favourite candy. Sans chuckles when their attempt to fix it over their eyes fails. "y'know, i could just get one that's more your size, right?"

"Don't wanna," Frisk mumbles. "It wouldn't be the same." I need this right now, please?

Sans blinks, his grin falling away to a thoughtful frown.

"did it happen today again?" Did you play with sharp things, with sharp edges, again?

They don't answer right away, but when they did, they just shake their head. Sans doesn't believe them. Frisk doesn't blame him for thinking so.

"look, kid— _frisk_ ," Sans says carefully, walking towards them in slow, measured steps. He stops a foot away from them, and nudges them to sit down on a stool. They do. "i think … i think you should listen to that murder-freak—"

He stops to give them a glare when they open their mouth to speak, the surfacing tease dying on their tongue. ("Is the world finally ending?" or something along those lines.)

"—and talk to someone qualified 'bout this. you should listen to chara, _just this one time._ "

Frisk tells him he's stupid for ever thinking he is not qualified to listen to their stories of nothingness— _complete and utter nothing—_ and give them advice that is surely going to help them in the long run, neverminding the fact that they wouldn't do any of it in the end.

Sans sighs. "i've gone through that, yes. several times? make it several _hundred._ still experience it? 'course. but none o' that has given me any authorization to be your therapist, kid. and, we've already talked about this: you need real, professional, honest-to-goodness **help**."

They nod lowly, the tips of their hair brushing against their neck. "Yes, but ... I'm scared." Frisk lifts their knees up to their chin. It must look quite scandalous if anyone ever sees them in that position, what with their socks flashed in a very provocative way, but it matters not to them.

Another sigh exits his mouth, longer than the previous one. It is riddled with exhaustion, the kind that is only native to him. "kiddo," he breathes, pauses, and gives them a look that makes them squirm in their seat. Anger and frustration, they are well acquainted, but there is a line or shadow that is pleading them to elaborate. Begging? Sans never begs; he negotiates or takes by force, but never begs.

Frisk thinks their heart might break from the guilt of knowing that they are the reason for the expression. And, like that isn't enough, he whispers a "please". Frisk knows that the sobs that ring loudly in the room is theirs.

"I'm scared, Sans," they choke out. "I'm scared of that piece of paper confirming what I already know. I'm scared of the relapse and the things I would do, wondering if I would ever recover, and, at the same time, I'm scared of the recovery and the medicine. I know I'll miss this. I don't know how to be _me_ without it, but! But ...

"I'm even more terrified finding out that what this ... _this_ isn't real, and that what I've been feeling is normal to another person, and that I'm just telling myself that I'm sick to make up excuses. That I'm pinning my own faults to a disease that I don't even have! I'm so scared that I ... I—"

The arms that wrap around them is warm, and they grasp at them with urgency. Sans lets his skull settle on the top of their head, whispering and cooing phrases of solace, while raking his fingers through their hair. Their legs wobble, tired, so they let their feet fall to the floor. Sans shifts his arms as they do so, careful as not to release them from his embrace.

Contrary to popular belief, they aren't friends—they haven't been in a long time, actually. It must have happened at the fifty-second iteration, or maybe even before that, when Sans has given up trying to reach them and Frisk has given up on trying to quit RESETting. There is no relationship of any kind outside the usual dialogue, physical interaction and boss battle. This, the embrace and the comfort and the company? It is only because he thinks he is still partly responsible for Frisk's well-being, though, other than that, he holds only rage for them.

He never forgave Frisk; they never really thought Sans would.

"I'm so sorry." They try anyway. Frisk misses him, and it has finally dawned on them that visiting him while on break and telling him things they already told their siblings and joking around with half-assed jokes and receiving things from him because of an occasional whim isn't enough. Being treated as a stranger isn't enough anymore, because Frisk misses him, Sans, _their_ _ **best friend**_ , and it hurts having him in an arm's distance, yet fully knowing he would never turn around and reach their outstretched hand.

And, so they try and try and _try_ , until their apologies become a garbled mess on their tongue, a string of words that has become something akin to a prayer. "I'm sorry." That I hadn't listened. "I'm sorry." That I gave up the world you wanted. "I'm sorry." That I killed your brother again and again. "I'm sorry." That I never really found a way to SAVE you. "I'm sorry."

Sans is quiet, the faux heaving of his chest stilling, and they know that he understands that they aren't apologizing for dampening his sleeves with tears and taking his time just to cry. There are no sounds apart from their whimpering—a silence they find unbearable as they await his reply. He doesn't say anything, no, and, Frisk might have opened their mouth to fill it with something, _because something is better than nothing please say something_ , when he tightens his hold and breathes a sigh on their hair.

It's not a forgiveness—he hasn't forgiven them, and he may never will—but, it is a something better than the nothing of a myriad of timelines. They can't rebuild what they once had, it would be naive of them to think that it could still be that way despite what they had done. But, being in his arms and knowing that he might one day start trusting them again, to Frisk, that is enough for now.

("There is no certainty that you won't be tempted to RESET again," Chara had whispered. "No, there is no certainty," they had smiled, "but, if I don't at least try, then how would I know, right? It's the one hundred and fifth run now, and I'm ready to go home.")

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 **a/n:** **i don't know what i'm doing with my life, or what the point of this story is. i don't have anything planned, only that it should at least be five chapters and will be fucking spontaneous in updating. or, maybe not update at all? meh, what's new with me? anyway, i hope (the majority of) this doesn't stray too far from canon and the original gameplay. hopefully. it's a good time to pray now, i guess.**

 **oh, and also, (1) whether frisk goes to a therapist or not and has or does not have depression is up to you guys to interpret. i don't really plan on saying much about the topic, because this was supposed to be my attempt in drabbling in comedy (is not going well) and i am not well informed about it to be comfortable enough to write. of course, it would still be a recurring topic here, but it would probably come up subtly and in a way that would be open to interpretation. then again, i might change my mind and write a whole chapter on it. depends really.**

 **(2) and how, why, where, how and when questions would be at the second chapter. 'cuz i'm too lazy to write it all down in this one.**

 **(3) i ship a lot of ships that are not that heard of, so if ever there are ships you don't like, please either remain respectful or in silence. thank you!**

 **so that's it for now. this is a pretty big-ass author's note, i apologize for that.**

 **feedback and constructive criticism are much appreciated**


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